the first thing you notice,
is the smell
all of the water just gets recycled
and it gets so *****
you can't see through it
the tunnel smells the worst
where the cars come through
and the laundry station is
I either get told to punch in
or that they don't need me
go to the break room

then maybe a car comes
probably not if it's a Monday
or if it's raining
but suppose one comes anyway
you get told to jump on it
pull it into the tunnel
then run down to the other end to catch it
pulling it onto the lot
you check what kind of a wash it is
if you're lucky
it's just an exterior
but let's be honest
it's probably going to be an ultimate
upholstery coated in dog hair
that the over privileged
WASP
stay at home mother
pesters you to get out
no matter how many times you explain
it isn't store policy
we don't cover dog hair ma'am
maybe her toddler spilled an entire happy meal
into one of the side pockets
you do a ****** job
she'll probably stiff you anyway

you're out on the lot
for hours
just making the same clockwise motions with your hands
over and over again
this can last for hours
then it's back to the break room
where the bosses cut lines of coke
off of the managers table
the place reeks of something
the IRS wouldn't like
you're there from 8 to 7
and you're lucky to get 5 hours on the clock

You get home
and the smell doesn't leave
and the first thing you want
is a drink
or a smoke
preferably both
and you want to sleep
for hours
sleep away the lesser moments
and the bigger one
but you know
you have to wake up at 6:45
to drive back over
and do it all again

The woman is perfected
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the *****'s ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.

country music
summer nights
getting close
by fire light
sneaking glances
drinking beer
making sure
the coast is clear

pretty girls
excited boys
experiencing
summer joys
paisley on
the radio
guessing just
how far to go

sweaty bodies
kept in check
in chairs out
on the cottage deck
slip down through
the boat house door
to swim out to
the float off shore

summer boys
and summer girls
swim out past
the water swirls
washing off
the summer dust
and giving in
to summer lust

cottage campers
paddle by
as silently
our campers lie
sneaking glances
drinking beer
making sure
the coast is clear

country music
summer nights
knowing when
the time is right
now is time
to turn the page
as two young campers
come of age.

Beds were never made to die on

I,
I drift between starlight,
To forget it all,
Trying to hide from pictures that reopen blinding wounds,
Like magmatic pillars,
Rising,
Spitting,
Gasping,
Combusting: I cannot hold them down with my hands,
They settle and vulcanize around my heart,
A thick thick crust now...
Even though they are seismic,
These spaces keep me safe,
Drifting,
Breathing,
Dark but not dark,
Dying but not dead,
Breathing,
Just Breathing